


The pattern of faith

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sentient Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: Maybe it's like fighting, like giving up. Maybe it's like belonging somewhere, at last.A short story about faith and belief and belonging.





	The pattern of faith

_Be, in this immeasurable night,_   
_at your senses’ cross-ways cunning,_   
_be the sense of their mysterious tryst._

_And, should earthiness forget you quite,_   
_murmur to the quiet earth: I’m running._   
_Tell the running water: I exist._

\- R. M. Rilke: Sonnets to Orpheus, XXIX.

*

There is a pattern here. Slowly but surely, it's become familiar. Most nights, after their shared meal, Vasquez sees the old man get up and walk away, by himself. Sometimes with his book, sometimes with the stars. He can't always see them, but he knows that they are there. It's comforting. It's right. And, more often than not, it's enough.

Yes, the stars are always there. And the moon gives him some light to see. Night after night, year after year.

Maybe there is a sort of faith in this pattern. And that's good, because he has nothing else. Nothing but all his sorrows, all his losses, all the things he's done. Vasquez knows what it's like. To be left behind, to be forgotten. To send a prayer up to the sky and out to the world, when you are lost, because you have nothing else to offer.

When he was a boy, he used to try and count the stars. He never could, and somehow that gave him comfort. It felt safe, to be there under such a big sky, like a big dark blanket that never ended and never stopped.

He still remembers those old stories. And he wishes that they still made sense. How did he get so lost? Was it something he left behind, something he forgot? A man like him should have given up, long ago. He is tired, battle worn. His hands are still rough and raw and empty, and he should have known. He should have known. But he never did. He never stopped looking.

He never stopped. And he has reached a crossroads, and he is still searching. The sky is still red, and the nights keep coming, slowly, like raindrops, like flowers, like words. Like a stubborn prayer he can't forget. And he is here. He is still _here_. Maybe he is lost. But the earth and the sky still know him. They still hear his empty-handed prayer. And sometimes, they answer.

Some things don't change, and maybe that means something.

One night, finally, Vasquez reaches into his saddlebag, and he takes out his mother's rosary. All the prayers within are weak, almost faded away. But they are still there. He knows. He knows, and they walk together. Horne has his book. Vasquez has his Guadalupe, close to his heart. Always. And he has too many novembers in this earth, and a sort of invisible faith. These are his own patterns. Different, but just as harsh. Just as stubborn.

He is still here. And that has to be enough. And all the stars are here too, slow, soft, almost invisible. But still _here_. He reaches out to them, with only a whisper, and maybe this is all he needs. Maybe it's like fighting, like giving up. Maybe it's like belonging somewhere, at last.

And it all makes sense. Night after night, under the sky, under the rain, maybe this is the pattern of faith. When the stars are enough, when no words are needed. When having nothing to offer means everything.


End file.
